


Trigger and Temptation

by BeaconHill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Auror Harry Potter, Dark Arts, Dark Harry Potter, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26034568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaconHill/pseuds/BeaconHill
Summary: Ten years after Voldemort's death, Harry and Ginny's marriage hits the rocks. When he's kicked out of the house one night, he decides to stay at the old Black home at Grimmauld Place, now part of a museum about the war years. Harry's always had some personal problems – like having the remnants of Voldemort's horcruxes stuck in his head – but that night, everything seems to catch up with him, and it sends him down a dark path.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68





	1. The Order of the Phoenix Museum

"Master Harry?" asks the small, squeaky voice. "What is Master doing here?"  
  
The lights are dark in the Order of the Phoenix Museum, the guests gone, the wards active. It's eerily quiet. I haven't seen the place like this in some time.  
  
"Is Master all right?" Kreacher asks, his old face even more wrinkly than usual with worry.  
  
I own 12 Grimmauld Place, but I don't live here. Instead, my home is the rebuilt Potter Hall, destroyed way back in the 1970s by Death Eaters in retribution for my grandmother's work at the DMLE. The old Black family home is instead the center of a museum about the war years, about Voldemort and the Order of the Phoenix.  
  
Kreacher asked to stay with his ancestral home, and I agreed. He's the museum's head elf now, with a staff of half a dozen working under him.  
  
"I... just need to get out of the house for the night," I say. "I know the old upstairs bedrooms are still... mostly livable... so I figured I'd stay here, spare myself the indignity of renting a room." I hang my head. "Hopefully, Ginny will be over it by tomorrow."  
  
Kreacher bobs his head understandingly. "Of course, master. The boxes can be moved within half an hour. Would Master prefer to stay in Master Sirius's bedroom, or Master Regulus's?"  
  
"I... Regulus's, I think," I say, eyes tracing across a baseboard. It's been ten years since he died, but my heart still hurts to remember Sirius Black.  
  
"Of course, Master," he says warmly. "I'll have the others make a cup of tea for Master at the café while Kreacher gets it ready."  
  
I walk slowly through the empty museum. It's eerie – almost as if in a dream. For a moment, it feels just as it was in the war, cold and silent – and then I step through a door that wasn't there before, and into the museum café. A sleepy house-elf sets out a cup of tea on the counter, and I sit back and take a sip. It's perfect.  
  
Just like my marriage used to be. It was only last year that we were talking about kids. Now...  
  
I sigh, drink more of the tea. Best to get my mind off that.  
  
~~  
  
I squeeze past the boxes and through the door to my new bedroom. I recognize it not as Regulus's room – I haven't been in here in many years – but as the mirror image to Sirius's room through the wall. That, I still visit sometimes, just sit on the bed and stare – though I don't want to imagine it hidden behind the boxes that the house-elves moved from in here. I'd bought the houses on both sides to expand the museum, and their fourth floors have exhibits, but I just couldn't do that to Sirius's bedroom.  
  
But I certainly never planned on _living_ here. Especially since I haven't done anything about Regulus's sense of decor. The bedroom is still done up in green and silver – drapes, curtains, paint, everything. A big Black family crest hangs right over the head of the bed, and ancient newspaper clippings about Voldemort are stuck to the ceiling, including a big full-page photograph of him in all his noseless glory. Yeah, that'll be fun to wake up to...  
  
"The bathroom is set up as well, Master, and Kreacher will have the café elves send Master a big breakfast in the morning."  
  
"Thank you, Kreacher," I say blearily, picking up the pajamas he'd left out for me. House elves really are amazing. "Good night."  
  
"Good night, Master," he said, before departing with a snap.  
  
Merlin, do I feel like crap. Hopefully things will be better in the morning.  
  
~~  
  
I jolt out of bed, adrenaline pounding through my veins, and the first thing I can think is _ha, did I really think I would sleep 'til morning?_  
  
Worse, it wasn't just a regular nightmare – this was a Voldemort memory, from when he was about fifteen. From this very house, in fact – he was reading Dark Arts books in the Black family library. I never knew for sure he'd visited the house before – maybe I can add little markers in the museum? Trace his footsteps?  
  
I still haven't figured out why I keep seeing memories of Voldemort, and I haven't been able to do anything about it. In the five years since this started, I've had St. Mungo's healers, experts in Dark Arts and soul magic, look at my brain and my scar, and they all say the same thing: there's no trace of any Horcrux or part of Voldemort's soul still remaining inside me. They used to think I was dreaming or hallucinating, but they're sure I'm not now – I remember way too many verifiable facts that I have no other way of knowing. Now, their best guess is that this was actually caused by _destroying_ the Horcrux – with Voldemort gone, the theory goes, everything he left behind now belongs to me.  
  
There was talk of giving me a medical discharge from the Aurors over it for a while, but after a thorough Mind Healer exam – not to mention months of maintaining my usual excellent performance on probation – they concluded that, as disconcerting as it might be to have an Auror dealing with intrusive thoughts of Lord Voldemort, it was no risk to my performance or my sanity. If only the same were true of the Mind Healers themselves.  
  
I get up and start to pace. It always takes a long time to get back to sleep after these memories. Sometimes, I Apparate to places I remember seeing Voldemort, and that usually helps settle me down again – seeing that it's empty, that it's normal, that Voldemort isn't there any more.  
  
It had never been quite as easy as walking downstairs before, though. And I could use a book, for that matter.  
  
_This is a terrible idea_ , I grumble to myself, as I get out of bed and start to pad down the back stairs in my pajamas.  
  
The Black library, too, is closed to guests and left untouched – as the centuries-old library of a notorious Dark family, it's part of the museum's collection in its entirety. We considered putting in a window so guests could view it, but the experts I consulted all advised against it – even the titles of books in a library like this can give hints to an aspiring Dark Artist. But as the museum's owner and curator, all the room's wards yield to me, the _no entry_ sign deftly springing aside.  
  
The chair Voldemort sat in and the book he read are still here, just as they were, as if he only just left. But the Dark Lord himself is nowhere to be seen.  
  
With a sigh, I take the book off the shelf – _Ritual Principles in Greater Soul Necromancy_ – and plop down into the eerily familiar – incredibly comfortable – chair. Much to my surprise, I enjoy it immediately.  
  
The book is dry and jargon-filled, an opaque, convoluted discussion of technicalities. Even Hermione would have trouble getting much out of this. But Voldemort's thoughts and comments bubble through me as I read, filling in the gaps with Voldemort's extensive knowledge of the Arts, background and theory and technique pouring in like I'd been doing it my whole life. Even reading _normal_ textbooks has never been like this before. And that's not the only way I feel Lord Voldemort bleeding through. Every once in a while, I look up and see a Black family member dead for decades – Orion, Arcturus, Pollux, Alphard – and just look back down again. Kreacher comes to bring tea, and for a moment, I see him as he was sixty years ago, a cheerful young thing who thought the world of Tom Riddle.  
  
The Voldemort memories had never been this _intense_ before, never so mixed in with my real life. I'm starting to get the sense that this is _bad news_. But I can't seem to tear myself away, whiling away the hours almost in a trance.  
  
By the time I skulk up the stairs to my bedroom, the sun is beginning to rise. I only barely manage to dodge the first of the wizard employees to arrive in the morning. I Apparate to the Ministry, walk slowly to my desk in the Auror division, and spend my entire day pretending that nothing is wrong.  
  
~~  
  
I trudge through the sterile Ministry halls, my head down, my face grim.  
  
It's been a month since I started sleeping at Grimmauld Place. I thought I would come home after that, and I did... once or twice... but the longer we spent apart, the more obvious it got that we liked it better that way.  
  
We really, really loved each other at the start. My marriage is still, even in retrospect, one of the happiest days of my life. But things were different back then. I was a teenage revolutionary, and Ginny was still a student. Now I'm a twenty-seven-year-old senior Auror, and Ginny is a professional Quidditch player. And whatever happened along the line, one thing is clear: we're not in love any more.  
  
We're going to file for divorce this evening.  
  
It's the right thing. I _know_ it's the right thing, it's better that we get this over with _now_ before we really, truly hate each other, but I still feel like I'm lying dead in the Forbidden Forest again. We've been married for eight years. Dating for eleven. What am I even going to _do_ after Ginny?  
  
"Morning, Potter," says the clerk at the desk. "Writing another report?"  
  
"Just doing some research, Stern," I say, as he slides a clipboard onto the counter. "Shouldn't be long."  
  
"You can take your time, sir, all three of the rooms are empty."  
  
I smile at him as I scrawl my name on the pad – it flashes green, indicating an authentic and uncoerced signature. "Thanks," I say, handing back the clipboard before walking past his desk and into a narrow little corridor with three doors. I open the one on the far end, step into the little closet, and lock the door behind me.  
  
Inside, it's spartan. White walls, a Ministry-standard fake window for light, two hard-backed chairs at a table with a big, heavy dish sitting atop it, thick gray ceramic with sleek silver runes around the rim.  
  
This is one of the Auror office's Pensieves. They're absolutely invaluable – I use them with witnesses, for writing detailed reports from my own recollections, even for some kinds of interrogations. Honestly, I don't know what we'd do without them. A lot of the others think they're creepy, but after everything I saw in Dumbledore's Pensieve, this just feels normal to me.  
  
I draw a memory from my temple, drop it gently into the basin, stir it around a few times, then enter it.  
  
I'm only supposed to use the Pensieves for official business, but what I'm here to watch isn't a murder or a duel. It's not even a memory of life with Ginny, much as I want to. In fact, this memory is of a room not five minutes' walk away, an Auror conference room with Hogwarts-style school desks and a blackboard and podium up front. In the audience are my fellow Aurors, along with a fair few Inspectors from the Department of Dark Artifact Control – Ron, as deputy chief Inspector, has a place of pride right in the center of the front row.  
  
The presenter, looking confident at the blackboard? Me, my past self, well-rested and happy in a way that makes some part of me _hurt_.  
  
"A lot of you," my past self says, "have... stereotypes, about Dark Arts abusers. And that's a problem, because it means that when you see an abuser who doesn't fit the stereotype, it's that much harder for you to realize it and catch them."  
  
_Oh, Merlin_ , I realize as my stomach sinks. _This is going to be even harder to watch than I thought._  
  
See, I've now spent twenty-nine nights at Grimmauld Place – and I never stopped reading those Dark Arts books. It seems like that first night tipped off whatever part of Voldemort is stuck in my head, and now every night I dream of the Dark, and every night I wake up and read for at least a few hours before I can get back to sleep. At first, I thought it didn't mean anything, but it's become more than clear: this magic is changing me.  
  
I need to _try_ to stop. Somehow. And maybe... maybe remembering what I once believed might help.  
  
"So, what are some of those stereotypes?" asks my past self. He taps the blackboard, and a list appears, chalked up by an invisible hand. "They have a past history of arrest. They're from an old Pureblood family with a library dating back to the 1400s. They were a Slytherin in school. Their dad was a Death Eater." He turns back to the somewhat confused audience. "Now, I'm sure you've caught a lot of people like these stereotypes, and there is a grain of truth behind all of them. But there are also lots of abusers who don't follow these stereotypes. In fact, Dark Arts abusers often don't look like any other kind of serious criminal."  
  
He paces from the blackboard to the podium and back.  
  
"Normally, serious criminals have a history," he says, his wand held at his side in the stiff, controlled position of an Auror. "Past arrests, jail time, or even just petty crime, like cruelty to animals or setting small fires. We're used to seeing suspects like that. But for abusers, past history doesn't matter. They could have been a kind, empathetic person all their life – the Dark Arts change them, stripping their conscience and empathy, making them volatile and foul-tempered." He lowers his head, looking sorrowful. "Far too many of the people I talk to in the holding cells were perfectly normal a year ago."  
  
I smile bitterly at the words. Hell, everyone still thinks _I'm_ a hero!  
  
"Instead, let's focus on the basic indicators, the two Ts of Dark Arts abuse: trigger and temptation." He raps the blackboard again. "The _trigger_ is the event in an abuser's life that caused them to turn to the Dark Arts. Everyone knows the Dark Arts are dangerous and corrupting. And no one, not even a Dark Arts enthusiast, actually wants to go mad and get sent to Whitekeep Prison. The trigger is what pushes them past their natural resistance, and into doing something that they _know_ is wrong. It can be anything – something big and life-changing, like a death, a financial crisis, a divorce, or a lost job, or something smaller, all the way down to a fight, an argument, or even an insult. What's important is that it matters to our abuser."  
  
Divorce, fights, arguments, check, check, check.  
  
"The _temptation_ is the knowledge about the Dark Arts that allows an abuser to learn it. Thanks to the work of our dedicated Inspector corps" – he smiles at the ones in the audience – "a lot fewer people find themselves in temptation than did eight years ago, when I started, and that's a great thing. But it's not gone yet. Temptation _could_ come from the usual suspects – a Death Eater father, a childhood in the Slytherin dorm – but it could have come from a lot of places. Even the Order of the Phoenix used some Dark Arts in the war. And it doesn't always take a lot of knowledge to be dangerous. When I went to Hogwarts, a professor demonstrated the Unforgivables in class. History books have photographs, and _everyone_ knows the incantations. That can be enough to learn the spells. And the Unforgivables are _more_ than enough to cause havoc."  
  
Let's see. How about owning a whole museum with Britain's largest private collection of Dark Arts artifacts? And having the memories of the last Dark Lord stuck in my head? Is that _temptation_ enough for me?  
  
"Now, let's take a look at some examples of suspects you might run into."  
  
He raps the blackboard, and a picture draws itself there: a tall man, no one in particular, but with a distinctively Pureblood nose and chin, fancy robes of a style most stopped wearing after the war, and a dismissive sneer on his face, it's obvious that this is meant to be a stereotypical abuser.  
  
"This is the 'usual suspect' in Dark Arts abuse investigations," my past self confirms. "A Pureblood with a shady background and some family in Whitekeep."  
  
There are nods in the audience.  
  
"We all know how Dark Arts abusers like this happen. They've probably been learning the spells since they were little, probably stashed a few books in a hiding place. And someone whose family went to jail certainly has plenty of cause for a trigger." He frowns, shakes his head. "The thing is, Dark Artists like this are _easy_. It's almost harder _not_ to catch them. See, everyone knows about Dark Artists like this. If someone in this group behaves even a little bit suspiciously, we'll hear about it, and we'll investigate."  
  
Some of the more experienced ones grimace.  
  
"Not only are these are the easiest to catch, they're also the most likely to be false leads – because a lot of people know _too_ much about this kind of darkness. Raise your hand if you've ever dealt with someone trying to use us to harass a neighbor or an old school rival who fits the profile."  
  
My past self raises his hand, as does about half the audience.  
  
"Yeah, I thought so. It's a pain in the ass, isn't it?"  
  
A nervous giggle runs through the audience. More than a few of them have followed up on those kinds of false leads, and put innocent people through the wringer.  
  
"And it's not just the actively malicious who can give bad information about these kinds of people. If you ask John who lives down the block if he saw someone suspicious before the attack, this is the man John will remember – even if he had nothing whatsoever to do with it. The real attacker may well have escaped his notice entirely."  
  
He raps the chalkboard again, and another picture draws itself out: a wizard in shabby, patched clothes with a frightened look on his face, and a witch with punk-styled hair and clothes. Both have wands raised.  
  
"These are war veterans – but not washed-up Death Eaters. These are the _rebels_. Order of the Phoenix, rogue Aurors, people who lived on the run." This time, the audience is deadly still, absolutely silent. Some of the younger ones in the audience look horrified that anyone – let alone _me_ – would accuse war heroes. "A lot of us have losses that linger: dead family, dead friends, PTSD. The first of the Death Eaters are being released from Whitekeep, eight years after the trials, and some of us want revenge. A lot of us used Dark Arts in the war – no one wanted to, but we did what we had to do. That's your trigger and temptation, right there."  
  
My past self bows his head. There are a few people I remember picturing. A few more I'm picturing now, people who got caught since then. And I don't even want to know what he'd think if he knew it would happen to him, too.  
  
"We've captured far too many people with medals on their walls and blood on their hands. Far too many people who helped me, who fought alongside me, who even now I would call friends. And far too often, because they are admired, because they're trusted, because no one expects it of them until it's far too late – these are the people who don't get stopped before they end up in Whitekeep."  
  
The audience looks stunned, shell-shocked, save for those few grim faces who have seen their own cases like this, who've gotten their own shock and fear and anger out long ago.  
  
"I know it feels wrong to go after war heroes," my past self says. "But we veterans are vulnerable, and the best thing you can do for us is to make sure we get help before we go too far, before we do anything we'll regret." He sighs. "Sorry. I told you at the start, this presentation would be a downer. And this isn't gonna be the last of it."  
  
He raps the chalkboard, and another picture draws itself in: three people, one in a Healer's uniform, one in an Unspeakable uniform, one in the robes of a Hogwarts professor.  
  
"The regulated professions are another common source of Dark Arts abusers," he says. "Lots of people have licenses to access Dark Arts material. Healers, Defense instructors, Unspeakables, Wardmasters, and more need to understand the Dark Arts as part of their jobs. But having a license doesn't make you immune to the stress and pain that can cause a trigger. And while these professions do all have testing, checks to ensure they're not using the Dark Arts – you've all suffered through the Dark screenings yourselves – they're not always enough to stop someone before they cause harm."  
  
The audience looks pretty unmoved, but I've got a sinking feeling – I think I remember what I said next...  
  
"Now, I'd like to spend extra time on two particular regulated professions – ours."  
  
He raps the chalkboard, but instead of an illustration like the other slides, the whole board turns silvery, reflecting back the suddenly sick-looking audience.  
  
"Aurors and Inspectors are licensed to learn about the Dark Arts. How else can we can catch its practitioners? And we're even authorized to use some of it, if necessary – a lot of us, I'm sure, have been in fights that would have gone bad without a well-placed curse or two. There's nothing wrong with that – we have this privilege because the Ministry recognizes that we need it sometimes. But, just like a license doesn't make you immune to temptation, neither does a badge." He leans on the podium, looking sadly at the crowd. At me. "Our jobs aren't easy. We see bad things, and sometimes, the people who did it get away. We work long hours, get hurt, get our _friends_ hurt, or civilians. It wears on us. A lot of us served in the war, too. And we're exposed to all the normal stresses of life, sometimes more than normal – it can be hard, doing what we do and going home to a wife, to a family. That's more than enough pressure to be a trigger."  
  
He bows his head, looking grim.  
  
"It can feel like the end of the world to an Auror or an Inspector who starts to slide into the Dark Arts. It just feels so... impossible. We're supposed to be the ones who _catch_ the Dark Arts abusers. If everyone knows I am one... Merlin knows what will happen."  
  
He's saying the words, but he's not really, truly _feeling_ the words, not _understanding_ what it would actually be like to abuse the Dark Arts. Probably he still doesn't think it can happen to him. Even after this whole presentation full of red flags, he doesn't think it can be him.  
  
"Remember, Dark Arts abuse isn't a crime on its own – it's an _addiction_. Abusers don't go to Whitekeep – they get sent for treatment in St. Mungos." His eyes flash. "At least, until the moment they hurt another human being. And if an abuser doesn't get help, they'll _always_ get there eventually. Wouldn't you rather be stopped before it goes that far?"  
  
Everyone who isn't too shocked or horrified to respond nods, even me. I... I _want_ to stop. I'm not sure I ever really admitted that to myself before, but... this is abuse. This is a problem. I do want to stop. Hell, I go to bed every single night vowing to myself _no, not again, not another night_ , and every night I do it again. I just... I don't know how.  
  
"So if you ever find yourself in that situation... tell someone. Anyone. Friends, family, your manager – if you really need someone, you can talk to me." Ha. If only. "I know it's scary. I know it'll hurt. But you can do this. It won't be the end of the world. You'll get a few months of medical leave, you'll get help, and you'll come back."  
  
Okay. Tell someone. Who do I tell? _Who_ do I tell? Ginny? Fuck no! Ron? He's her brother, and I _know_ he's mad at me! Hermione? She married Ron!  
  
I have lots of friends. The other Aurors love me. But none of them are _close_ the way my school friends used to be. I don't trust them – I _can't_! Do I tell the chief? He might help. Or he might decide that this is a good time to get rid of me, because he knows I'm popular and I'm good and he's been scared for _years_ that I'll take his job. Then there's all the people who just want to _cozy up to the celebrity_ , and honestly, _fuck_ them.  
  
And, yeah, I know _most_ Aurors could be treated for Dark Arts abuse and come back. I know that. But I was on thin ice already, with the Voldemort memory shit! And I still remember the million times people turned on me when I was younger – Parseltongue and the smear campaigns were the big ones, and Merlin, those were so stupid. Do I _really_ think it won't happen again? Do I really think it won't leak, and end up on the front page of the Prophet, and then everyone will _hate_ me just like the bad old days?  
  
No. No! Fuck no. I can't do this. I can't. It's just... not possible.  
  
"I truly believe it could happen to anybody," my past self says. "Any of us. Even me."  
  
Liar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta read by GlassGirlCeci, who receives a toothbrush holder made out of a skull. Black family decor. :P
> 
> I'm taking a break from Shedding Lionskin – my ongoing Harry Potter fic – to release this little two-shot! Expect the next part next week, followed by a return to Shedding Lionskin with a hopefully strengthened buffer.
> 
> Note that this fic **does not** share Dark Arts worldbuilding with _Shedding Lionskin_.


	2. This Silent Place

The pigeon _screams_ , a harsh, almost painful sound that fills up the London alley. Without my sound-dampening, notice-me-not, and Muggle-repelling charms, I'm sure someone would notice. But the Dark Arts do their dirty work, and no one hears. The screams get quieter and quieter, until eventually they finally stop.  
  
I dip my finger into the pool of blood, dark in the pale pink light of the early morning, and smear it onto the crook of my arm, drawing a curlicue with a barb on the end. I raise my wand, and deliver the incantation – _Szarexa cansadi!_ – and the body of the pigeon burns with blue fire, the blood prickling on my arm.  
  
As the flames go out, my vision brightens and brightens, until I can see the whole alley as if it's high noon. Nightvision. It's a simple blood sigil, not permanent – just a taste, a first delicious taste of what the Dark Arts truly can be.  
  
I start to cackle with release, all the feelings I had built up evaporating in the soaring embrace of Dark Arts euphoria as I slump into the dirty brick wall behind me. If a Muggle policeman saw me, they'd arrest me for drunkenness. But an Auror would know exactly what I'd done.  
  
... exactly what I'd done.  
  
As the euphoria starts to fade, my paranoia starts to return, and – holy _fuck_ , what was I thinking? This is not okay! It isn't _like_ practicing spells in Regulus's bedroom – this is _sigil arts_! Sacrificial magic! I'll fail the Dark Arts testing at work for sure!  
  
Or, I could stop _going_ to work.  
  
I'd taken the occasional vacation, but not nearly as much as I could have – I have months of time saved up, preferring to take long breaks rather than short ones. True, it's unorthodox for me to ask for all that with no notice, let alone via _owl_ , but... with the divorce... I think I have a good excuse. The chief can't complain anyway – he's been trying to get me to take my vacation for years!  
  
And if I'm out of the office, if I'm all alone... then there's no one to stop me from spending as much time as I want on the Dark Arts.  
  
The cackle that escapes me this time is unsteadily perched halfway between laughing and sobbing. I'm not totally sure how long I stay that way, but when I finish, I'm collapsed on the ground, the seat of my pants soaking in a dirty puddle.  
  
I stand up, clean the crime scene and myself – _Scourgify Ultima_ , a careful criminal's best friend. I pull my robesleeves down over the sigil I painted, and then Apparate back to my room in Grimmauld Place, where I trip on nothing and faceplant into the bed.  
  
"Fuck," I mumble to myself. My nose hurts.  
  
"Harry?" asks a worried, _totally unexpected_ voice. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Hermione?" I lift my head up from the mattress, trying desperately to keep terror off my face. Sure enough, sitting not two feet from my sorry head, Hermione Granger, school friend, Hero of Hogwarts, and Ministry bigwig, all dressed up in her smart pantsuit. In _my_ bedroom. "W-what are you doing here? How'd you even get in?"  
  
"Am I intruding?" she asks. "You told Kreacher I could come up here... well, years ago, but he still let me in."  
  
"No, it's fine," I mutter, as I stand up, brush myself off, and sit down on the bed next to Hermione. Her dark skin has an odd blue cast to it, with my nightvision sigil still active, and a strange sparkle.  
  
"Good," she says uncertainly. She must be itching to pelt me with questions, but thankfully, she restrains herself. Merlin, I have no idea what to do. It takes a force of effort just to keep from rubbing or staring at or fiddling with the arm that bears the sigil. Hermione's sharp. I can't bank on her not noticing. "So... how are you?" she asks. "Ron and I haven't heard from you in a while, so I... I just wanted to see how you're doing."  
  
"Fine," I mutter. "Not like I got divorced, and then kicked out of my home, or anything."  
  
"You don't have to go through this alone, Harry. Ron and I are here for you. If you want to talk it over, or... or at least visit us for dinner – I know it must be hard, staying here all alone in this gloomy place."  
  
"I... I really am fine," I whisper, looking away. She wouldn't be saying that if she knew what I've done. I just _sacrificed_ a living animal. Real Dark Arts, blood and fire and everything. No way she'd let me in her house, not with Ron, not with her baby. Merlin, I wouldn't even trust me around old Crookshanks.  
  
"I know you can handle it – I know we've stayed in worse places and all, but..." She motions to the room. "Not sure it makes for pleasant dreams, you know?"  
  
For a moment, I just gape. She's trying to make small talk, and I'm barely keeping it coherent. Some criminals love the feeling of getting away with things, of being _right under someone's nose_. So this would be a rush like nothing else. And I wish I was one of them, because Merlin, this makes me feel like _dog shit_. Hermione ought to scrape me off her shoes and walk away.  
  
And I haven't said a word, and she's staring, and Dark take me, I am _fucked_.  
  
"Yeah, I haven't redecorated. 'S still Regulus's old room, green and silver and Black family gloom and all." I snicker. It doesn't sound right. "I mean... he used to have this big photo of the Dark Lord hanging over the bed, all bald and scaly and weird. I covered that up." I start laughing again, and it takes more effort than I'd like to admit to shut up. "Glad I did, I don't even _want_ to know what you would have thought seeing that over the bed. Sweet dreams?"  
  
There's an unpleasant curl to Hermione's mouth now. "Are you _drunk_?" she asks. "This early in the morning?"  
  
"Wouldn't be your business if I were," I say slurredly. It's not a pleasant accusation – but it's also a great excuse.  
  
"I do have a sober-up potion in my bag," she says. "I was hoping I wouldn't need it...  
  
"Don't," I tell her. "I'm fine." And I don't want to see what she'll do when it doesn't help. Aurors are renowned for our ability to power through it. I stopped a robbery drunk once. Even if I were shitfaced, I wouldn't be this off.  
  
"Then where were you?" she asks.  
  
"Takin' a walk," I say. "Enjoying the sights, you know? London's a beautiful city. If I'm gonna be staying here, may as well make the most of it. I took a walk down Tottenham Court Road the other day. You know that diner, the one we fought the Death Eaters in? That closed up, there's an electronics store in there now. Muggle computers, mostly."  
  
"Harry..." She sounds sad. Worried. And I'm _petrified_. It almost feels like an interrogation from the other end – my big fat mouth is getting me into trouble.  
  
"I... I think you should go," I stammer. "Maybe we should talk tomorrow..."  
  
Hermione nods, the corners of her eyes glittering. "Okay," she says. "Can we set a time? Maybe tomorrow for lunch, or—"  
  
A flash of anger suddenly spikes through me. "Just go!" I yell. Some part of me knows that it's a mood swing – I knew they were coming – but that doesn't mean I can stop it. "Before I have Kreacher throw you out!"  
  
Her face twisted in fear and shock, she Apparates away.  
  
~~  
  
"Master Harry, wake up! Angry wizards are outside!" Kreacher yells, shoving at my shoulder.  
  
"Who are they?" I ask, awoken in an instant. I jump out of bed, wand springing into my hand. A quick wave summons my robes and then roughly jams them on. The old Auror startle response, twitchy as ever. "What are they doing?"  
  
"They are Inspectors, Master!" squeals Kreacher. "They say they are doing a raid! They're going to break in if you don't come talk to them!"  
  
Perversely, I _smile_. I knew this was coming. My disastrous conversation with Hermione was two weeks ago. I haven't gone to see her. I haven't even replied to her many owls. I requested leave from work, and that's it. My only communication with the outside world. Someone was bound to start putting two and two together. But if they're sending _Inspectors_... that means they have no evidence, or it'd be Aurors. They just want to rile me up, that's all.  
  
"I'll deal with them," I say, and it seems to buck Kreacher up a little. "Where are they?"  
  
"They are at the foot of the stairs," Kreacher says. "They want to search your bedroom!" My mouth quirks. They _should_ be looking at the library. Or the cellar.  
  
"All right." I take a moment to tidy up my robes before whisking down the stairs, where the other house-elves are trying to placate three inspectors – tough, nervous, and Ron.  
  
"Hello, officers," I say. "May I ask what business you have here?"  
  
"We're here to perform a raid." Tough guy has a face that looks squashed, like he'd run into a door at full tilt, and a rough Muggle accent like the one Dudley tried to imitate one summer. "We have reason to suspect that you have dark artifacts on the premises."  
  
"Dark Artifacts? Really? Don't you know where you are?" The tough guy stays stone-faced. "You've truly never been? No Hogwarts trip, no day in London with your family? This is the Order of the Phoenix Museum! So if you ask if I have Dark artifacts, I say: _yes!_ "  
  
Amusingly, tough guy seems to think this is a gotcha moment. Ron, however, is starting to look a bit worried.  
  
"We have Death Eater paraphernalia from both wars, including six of Lord Voldemort's seven horcruxes, featuring Ravenclaw's diadem, Hufflepuff's cup, Slytherin's locket, the taxidermied body of Nagini the snake – and me, of course! In more academic fare, we are widely acknowledged as having the world's best collection on the history of Dark Arts in the British Isles, with some pieces dating back to the eighth century! Of course, I do understand that all of this could be troubling in the wrong hands – which is why our collection is protected under the terms of our Class Five-M museum-grade license for the display, storage, preservation, and study of Dark Arts artifacts!" A quick wordless Accio brings the documentation into my hands. "Here you are, inspectors: duly issued to these premises, 11-13 Grimmauld Place, and to myself, Harry James Potter, as curator."  
  
Nervous reaches out to grab it – I can tell from her uniform that she's a junior Inspector, and I suspect she's a fan of mine to boot – and I give it to her. She scans through it quickly, then casts the standard verification charms, then turns back to the others. "We shouldn't be here," she whispers, her face growing pale.  
  
"What's that got to do with anything?" tough guy asks. Apparently this guy's intelligence is on par with his looks.  
  
"Are you familiar with the terms of a Class Five-M license?" I ask cheerily. "It seems like your companion is. You see, it limits what exactly inspectors like yourselves might do here. So if you want to read our audit reports, I can have them for you momentarily. If you'd like to test the security and safety spells, we can arrange a scheduled appointment. Or you can view our inventory files, if you like. But you have no authority over our collection. You are not permitted to perform a 'raid,' nor even to view our items without permission. You have no right to access the secured areas of the museum. And you _certainly_ won't be confiscating anything."  
  
"Mate, we're not going after the museum!" Ron says, and he sounds... normal. Friendly. It feels oddly incongruous. "We just want to see what's in your flat. That's not part of the museum, is it?"  
  
"It's not a flat, Ron, it's a storage room. A good chunk of our off-display collection is up there, boxes from floor to ceiling. Lucky for me, we never threw Regulus Black's bed out. Since, you know, my wife kicked me out of my house. And it is contained within the premises listed on the permit."  
  
"Then why haven't you gone home?" Ron asks. "Ginny's left, mate, she got a flat in Holyhead. You don't need to stay in this place."  
  
"I needed a change of scenery. Not much of a vacation if I spend the whole time at home, is it?" The corner of my mouth quirks. "I quite like central London, actually, I almost regret not keeping the place for myself. Maybe I will have the upper level turned into a proper flat someday."  
  
Ron sighs, like he's disappointed. "Mate, I know you've been through a rough time, and believe me, I've had more than a few rows with Ginny over it." I snort. Right. Which is why you're trying to break down _my_ door. "But you're taking it too far, here! No one's heard from you, you took off from work, you're not replying to owls, and here you are holed up with more creepy Dark Arts shite than we confiscate in a year! You get why we're worried, right? I mean, you wrote the book on this!"  
  
I don't have anything to say – I just sort of stare at Ron's shoes for a moment.  
  
"Look me in the eye and tell me there's nothing going on."  
  
"There is _nothing_ to worry about," I say. But Ron's known me for sixteen years, and he's not buying it.  
  
"Harry..." Ron really looks worried for me. "You know we're not gonna give up on you, right? Maybe we've not got our paperwork straightened out yet, but that won't make this go away. We can have the licenses reviewed if we have to!"  
  
"You could _try_ ," I say, and I just can't keep a nasty little smirk off my face as I say it, "but how d'you think that would look in court? Your sister divorces me, you and your father try to yank my licenses."  
  
Ron winces. "Sure, maybe you could slow us down, but you know we're not wrong. You know you don't want this! And, mate, if you don't want to talk to me or Hermione about it, I understand, but you've got to do something! Get out of this house, owl somebody – I don't care what, but just do it! _Please!_ " Ron's voice breaks on the words.  
  
He really is torn up about this, isn't he? I've been building myself up for a confrontation like this, thinking through the ways to tear Ron a new one. And yet somehow, I'd never considered that he might actually care, and for a moment, feelings prickle at me that I thought I'd burned out long ago. But what he's suggesting won't help. I already tried leaving the house, but it makes no difference when I can just Apparate back. And there's no way owling a psychiatrist would actually change anything. "I... I'll consider it," I stammer, my controlled facade finally cracking. "But you need to leave."  
  
Ron slowly, sadly orders his officers to leave. I watch them go. I've won, and yet somehow I feel more lost than ever.  
  
~~  
  
The bustle of central London is going by within arm's reach, the people and the traffic all enjoying a rare sunny day, but I don't hear anything at all. I'm standing in a gated alley just off a high street, made silent by the strongest isolating spells I know. I'm watching the people outside. They're window shopping. So am I.  
  
It's been a month since the failed museum raid. After my very public confrontation with the Inspectors – right in the middle of the damn _museum_ – I'm attracting attention again, almost as bad as the old days. My solicitor has been busy, doing her best to keep up the narrative I started in the museum – that it was a vindictive and illegal search from my ex-wife's family. It's mostly working, but I still can't exactly walk out the front door any more. I had to get my old Invisibility Cloak out to scout for this place – the perfect place to choose a victim.  
  
" _Imperio_ ," I say, pointing my wand at a businessman who looks eerily like Piers Polkiss. He stops. Turns on the spot. Walks right into my alley. Kneels down in the center of the runic circle, painted over the asphalt in blood. I can feel him start to panic, but he's just a Muggle. There's nothing he can do.  
  
I take just one moment to savor the scene. Feel the rush of anticipating. Then my wand flies through the jagged, lightning-bolt motion that is almost second nature to me, with Voldemort's memories in my head. I even remember the times he cast it on me.  
  
" _Avada kedavra_!" I say, and with a flash of green light, the Muggle goes limp, eyes still wide.  
  
I draw my knife. He may be dead, but my ritual has only just begun.  
  
The wizarding world outside is starting to realize what I am – far, far too late to stop me. And if they want to catch me? Well. I have all the knowledge of a Dark Lord, and soon, I'll have every last bit of his power.  
  
Should be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My stunning beta reader GlassGirlCeci receives the world's best collection on the history of Dark Arts in the British Isles.
> 
> Whee, that was a fun little piece of corruption there. My tastes tend to skew longer these days, but sometimes I do love just writing a nice quick twoshot.
> 
> Anyway, I'm moving my update day to Sunday, since I'm back to work and have a bit less free time – this gives me the weekend to wrap things up. Shedding Lionskin should hopefully resume within a Sunday or two now that this is over.
> 
> Reminder: this fic does not share Dark Arts worldbuilding with Shedding Lionskin. In fact, this fic directly contradicts it in quite a few ways, all the way from major (the Dark Arts are not nearly so addictive in SLS) to minor (Avada Kedavra is unsuitable for use in almost all rituals). I wanted to write a very different story with this one, and needed very different backstory to do that.


End file.
